If You Come Back | { OTA }

[aforethought]

WHO: Melys Auldwine + [ Malcolm Reynolds, Rafael, Bruce Banner ] + YOU!
WHAT: Arriving at Skyhold, some unexpectedly familiar faces, rampaging poultry.
WHEN: Mid-to-late Wintermarch, at various times.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Language, feathery mayhem. Will add warnings as necessary.

Starters below. Please feel free to wildcard me!

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CHICKEN RUN - OTA

[aforethought]

It’s only late afternoon, but a deep purple cast is already beginning to seep across the frigid horizon. Dusk falls quickly in the mountains, the sun dipping away into night like a gentleman's fainting chair.

The grounds are packed with the latest train of wagons: all merchants and mercenaries, refugees and hangers-on. Everyone has something to do, and the best herding efforts of a stream of brusque Chantry sisters still only carve thin swaths through the bustle.

All at once, something else clears the path.

Cacophony, as an entire flock of chickens bursts forth across the pathways, flapping and calling out in a panicked mass. They go running into the thick of the crowd: Into buildings, across fine goods, over the tops of horns and heads. Once they start coming, they don’t stop coming, like years in a Smash Mouth song.

They’re all over you. They’re in your hair. They're in your armor. They’re leaving a wake of feathers, destruction, and chicken shit — and somewhere in the distance a man is shouting down some thick, Orlesian blame on every faction in earshot.

What the fuck, dude?

[motherfucking_ghost]

They are everywhere. Just a stampede out of literally nowhere. Everywhere! They're all over a certain human guy, who just cannot seem to get them off him.

See Church. See Church flail. Flail, Church, flail. Flail and run around in circles, cursing every English curse under the sun. And some in Spanish. It's actually pretty entertaining to those not currently covered in chickens. Feathers are everywhere.

"jesus fucking christ get these stupid fluffy shits off me they're fucking everywhere ow this son of a bitch just scratched me get off what the fuck they're gonna shit all over me the shitting fucking bastards I'm gonna fry you all up and baste you if you don't get the fuck off"

is generally the kind of ranting that can be heard beneath the feathers.

[aforethought]

She took off like a shot when the cage came open off the wagon, but now she stops just short of the pinwheeling mass of arms, face screwed up with the sudden, contortions of someone trying not to laugh very hard.

It'd be fucking hilarious if she weren't half-afraid of him stomping one of them — and if it weren't for that hand glowing fit to set a lantern.

That just isn't any kind of good.

"Hey!" Melys knows how to crack her voice sharp when she's gotta; some things you never forget out of basic. "Easy!"

She steps forward deliberately, slowly, making as much noise as possible. Her hands splay out placative, the right clinging to an empty sack, only to swoop down suddenly and scoop up one of the squabbling hens into the bag.

"If you keep moving much more they're gonna panic," They're panicked already, but this guy doesn't act like he knows much on chickens. "And then they'll engage their poison glands."

[motherfucking_ghost]

It's true, the only thing he knows about chickens is that they lay eggs and they're delicious when fried. He's pretty sure chickens aren't poisonous, but who knows how mutated and weird chickens might be in this world?!?!

He almost trips and falls when he's startled by her voice, but the pinwheeling and general flailing at least comes to a stop. He is, however, hunched over in a silly position, arms out, a few more panicky birds taking perch on them or his head or down his back. "Are you fucking serious, cuz, man, that would be just what I need right now, god damn mutant snake-chickens!"

[aforethought]

"Serious as your funeral," That's two in the bag — three — "So hold right still now."

Four. Bag's not gonna be big enough. She knots it loosely, sets it aside.

"I'm gonna lift them off you. Don't fuss." Melys coos softly, nudges a few off Church's head, and onto her own shoulders. It's. Not comfortable. But it beats the alternative. "Alright. Reckon if you ease up slow, the rest'll move onwards. You're doing good."

Maker, did that really work? Did that sort of really work? Where in the Maker's Mire did this guy grow up?

"Doing real good. Straighten up now easy, let the nice snake-chickens off."

[foxsays]

Moments when it's really, really bad to have a pet fox: an explosion of chickens.

Out of seemingly nowhere he comes bounding along, a black and orange blur followed by an almost as fast young woman, curls streaming behind her like a banner and swearing furiously.

"Don't you dare you bastardo! Come back here immediately you little shit!"

And so the fox at last seems to prick up his ears and slam to a stop, but not before he has one chicken pinned beneath him, nose to beak with it as the shouting young woman - Antivan perhaps, maybe Rivaini, maybe a bit of both but actually neither - catches up to him, hands on her hips. Time to breathe. So she can yell more and haul him off though for all that he's small, well, there's something to be said for being single-minded in the way only a face can truly be.

This needs to be handled with care, human versus fox, who can move faster because she could go for the grab and come away with but a chunk of hair while he gets a chicken throat.

"I might need your help if you wish for the chicken to live."

[aforethought]

"Where d'you want me?"

The girl don't need to ask twice, but Melys isn't about to go spooking her pet off without by-your-leave. One chicken, that's not a disaster — maybe you get enough back from the beast for stock.

A whole henhouse, though, and that's a talk she doesn't intend to have. Melys squats low, angling aside Araceli with arms out and waiting. The wisdom of keeping a fox in a keep, that's something to question a little later on down the line.

[foxsays]

"I'll count, you can grab it or shoo it, whatever works."

Before now no one had chickens running wild.

"On three, one, two-" But she doesn't count to three, going on two and grabbing the fox tight around the middle because he goes with a plan and Araceli always goes on three. But this time she gets hold of him, even as he wriggles in her grip, lifting him clean off the ground hopefully right as Melys can get the chicken out of the way. "As soon as he can't see it he'll stop caring, he'll be more interested in you, I promise."

[aforethought]

She darts down for the chicken as Araceli grabs Lux, turning immediately aside to shove it into another, waiting set of hands. The bird squawks and cries out in grievously-offended fashion, for all of about thirty seconds before its feathery little brain catches up and reminds itself that it's content.

Pointing down the lane and murmuring something about the cage, Melys gets their impromptu assistant started off walking before turning back to face the girl.

"Maker, you're quick."

It's approving. Melys rocks back on her heels, eyeing the fox warily. You saw village kids with them from time to time, back home. A mother would get trapped, and if the season wasn't too lean to spare the meat, a couple of kits'd get their lives pleaded for. Not many stuck around after getting grown and wild; there were a fair share of shed tears over runaways.

"The both of you, I figure." She dusts here hands carefully on her pants, before offering the left out to sniff. He's no little fennec, that's for certain. Proper sort of fox. "Could do with a little less of that, I'm sure."

A WARDEN WALKS INTO A BAR, OUCH - Rafael

[aforethought]

The place is packed.

That shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who’s crawled outside today. Patrols, mercenaries, and merchants are converging on Skyhold en masse, like a whirling black murmuration of the basest human needs.

(And Dwarven, and Qun, and Elven, and...)

The results are loud as shit. If you don't want to talk, there's no better place to hide.

Mel’s been watching the gamblers in back, waving away any invitations to join. Tonight it’s Phoenix Clutch, which near as she can work it is just another bastard kid off of Wicked Grace. Two years back in Amaranthine, it was Fool's Crown. In Denerim, the Goat's Pot.

But the breed doesn’t matter, cards are a sucker’s game. Worse than dice — with that you’ve only got to keep track of one set of hands at a time. In cards, you can cheat as well as you like, and it won’t always matter for shit. No, she’s not playing here. A place like Skyhold, full of spies, and soldiers, and Antivans? The lies congeal every time someone coughs.

So she’s been hanging back, steadily nursing her drink. Every so often she’ll drift by an abandoned mug and dump it unceremoniously into hers. If the barman's caught on, he's been to say a thing.

But — hey! You weren’t finished with that!

OUCH

[offortune]

Eyy! Bella! At least say hello before you start stealing from me.

[ Rafael's response is quick and obvious but not loud enough to draw attention from others, a hand snapped out to grasp her wrist before she can pour. Not hard, no violence in the gesture as much as instinct. He turns his face up to her, big brown eyes and an easy smile, curled at the corners in a sort of smirk-ier humor. Someone who walks around the bar pouring other people's drinks into hers might just be a potential new friend. There is nothing about him that says Warden, no armor or uniform or pin. His tunic is a green that brings out a speck in his eyes, Antivan in the way it frames his shoulders and is notched at the neck. A heavier overgarment of some sort is folded across his lap, half-tucked between his knees in a way that would make it very difficult to steal. ]

It's one thing to pick a pocket but a man's drink--! [ He tips his head, brows raised and cocked. ] Welllll, you understand, I'm sure. [ He leans in closer, smile ticking wider, tone conspiritorial: ] How many have you managed? My record is thirteen in a row.

[aforethought]

[ Her wrist tenses, other arm slipping back to her side — an instinct of its own. She relaxes half a second later, fingers splaying out in a 'you got me' gesture, grinning slight and true. No point in pretending to be the new barhand with this one, huh. What was she just thinking on Antivans? ]

Six. Slow night. [ She slips aside, moving to settle in beside him. Waiting for an invitation is for people who haven't just introduced themselves on a point of minor theft. Melys waggles her eyebrows, leans in herself. Shit, but this is all practically nostalgic. ] Don't figure if I say 'hello' now, you'll let me finish it?

[ But instead, she pushes her own mug over towards his. If she's had enough to get sloppy, best to cool it a while. No sense in getting caught by someone less understanding; Melys has no intention — or means — of buying more of her own drinks tonight. ]

So, what's a record-breaker like you doing in a place like this?

[offortune]

[ Rafael chuckles, a rich sound, low and mellowed by the drinks he's already drunk. Which is not nearly as many as he would like, but just enough to coat his throat and make everything go down a little easier. He shakes his head and wags a finger. ] Finish it, no. But perhaps new friends can share.

[ He grins and takes a long swig of the wine she's just returned, letting the cup dangle in the air between his fingertips for a moment. His accent is a little muddled, Rivaini with an Antivan streak, deep and no drawl but sort of lilting. He doesn't seem to mind when Melys sits down, shifting on his stool to make conversation easier. ]

I am saving the world, chiaramente. That is what we all do here, yes? I am sure you are here for that, you look a woman for grand heroics. [ He is probably kidding. ]

this is why DA just needs facebook or something - MAL

[aforethought]

She came in on the tail of the returning patrol, chin high, and shoulders rigid as a cat in a new room. Her laughter died as the last them vanished, dispensed temporarily back to what passes here for a private life. After a week's travel, she could have claimed it too. There were invitations, introductions; the offer of belonging, of the start to something new.

She didn't follow.

It's been a good half hour now, and Melys still lingers by the gate, willing herself to pick up and run. The direction won't matter, just the motion-proof that she had a plan, beyond this, that she has any idea what to do.

Ahead, it's all bright day and soft wind. Metal clashes almost musically from the practice yards, and the air's full of the heady smell of living things. She breathes it in, eyes pressing shut...

...And open, again, onto him.

Melys almost startles, but she's used to this by now. A mistake, her eyes are playing tricks again. Another mistake. She'll blink, and he'll be gone.

She'll blink, and he'll be gone. She'll blink. She'll —

consider this mal pok'n her

[aintwejust]

Ghosts wander about sometimes. Mal stopped pay'n them mind a long time ago, if he gave 'em a hard look all he'd get is a headache and a sour stomach remember'n the smell of that day. Of both days. The first all mud and ozone and mouldering rot com'n off the 'Spawn, sky so black he thought he'd drown it it before the hurlocks ever hit the battlements. Those he didn't see all that often- he hadn't been close enough to watch 'em die. Stuck on a ridge far on the other end of the field he saw a flare go up from the tower...and half the damn army walk away.

Later ghosts are more familiar. All ashy and red, everything burn'n in Denerim, bits of 'em miss'n. Them he saw more often. Saw up close when they died. Left 'em in giant pyres when he road north; done with Ferelden and it's war.

They wander about less, the ghosts, faces he knew, faces he missed, folk he weren't ever gonna see again but then-

Ain't many women with hair that shade'a copper that stand like a soldier. Ain't many folk that have that kinda hunger pang'ed lean to 'em and wariness that you learned on the road. Years. It's been years but he sees her and this ain't a ghost. Ghosts don't age. Ghosts don't change. Ghosts don't stare back with that same shocked awe.

He's runn'n 'fore he can think better of it- Jayne lop'n behind him to make up for his five seconds of befuddled muddl'n while Mal's closing the distance. "Auldwine!"

fires back a farmville invite

[aforethought]

He starts running, and her own legs come unstuck. He shouts, and all at once it’d be the easiest thing in the world to take off and keep moving. To peel away from this place and never come back.

But —

“Sarge!”

The word croaks out in hoarse surprise, like she’s just not gonna believe it until she says it out loud. Melys drops her pack, legs sprinting to meet him in the middle; and if this isn’t real, isn’t solid, then that's going to be someone else’s problem when she gets there, arms shooting out in a flash to wrap around his shoulders. The right clangs heavy and loose, the left dug in with bony fingers, a grip for dear life.

And maybe that’s not real decorous, but shit, she hasn’t been a soldier in ten years.

She’s grinning like a catfish, but it’s all wrong, all twisted up and stretched too thin. Uncertainty scratches at her tongue.

“Thought they didn’t shine on necromancy out here.”

That’s a joke stacked on two, if what she’s been hearing out of the road is any kind of fucked-up-true. Still, it’s a bitch of thing, to find him walking around unburned, on top of the earth. It's skin too close to a candleflame, all knotted up tight in her chest.

forwards awful saccharine chain letter with mispellings

[aintwejust]

He hasn't heard that in years. No one calls him 'ser' but Zoë and he kinda likes it that way. He'd walked and rode and sailed as far as he could from those graves and all his soldier'n but he's right back in the thick of it with one word- and he's clinging to her tight as anything once they meet in the middle. Cling'n and laugh'n and there may be a few manly tears, his eyes pricking hot and salty at the sheer relief of having someone here that he thought he'd screwed over by not mind'n the signs best he could. Hell he even gives her a heft, hauls her up 'nuf to swing round once.

Sure it ain't dignified, but she'd been dead. It'd been his fault. Shouldn'ta split up the squad, shouldn'ta said 'yessir' and just done what was in his gut like he usually did; he'd thought he lost half at Ostegar. After Denerim that was just him and Zoë but here. Auldwine alive and kick'n even if she's still too bony for his peace of mind.

"Prolly 'cuz they don't. But I ain't dead and you ain't dead, how 'bout that?" Boots to the ground and it hurts to lean back to look at her, to see what's changed and what ain't. That's when the odd grip of her right hand makes him blink. "We went back for Tracey when he got his ass lost. Kept us in the wilds long 'nuf to miss the charge."

And the retreat. They'd made their own way after watch'n a wall of 'spawn make a ruin of the army.

DO YOU WANNA BUILD A SNOWMAN - Bruce

[aforethought]

The garden's full of plants she doesn't know.

Sure, she's got their names half-written down on a chintzy little picture in the back of her head — these are the flowers she's seen on plates, and the elabourate stems stamped around the edges of broadsheets. But Melys doesn't know them, not the way that she knows lichen and moss and spores and caps, and all the ugly little things that eat their way through damp earth.

What she does know is elfroot. Thank fuck for that.

A short while later, she's stooping her way into the healers' tents, a bundle in hand. It's probably not too helpful to be raiding the Inquisition's own herb stores for this, but Melys isn't much looking to help.

"I was sent with these?"

She lies, offering the herbs out.

C'MON LET'S GO AND PLAAAAY

[amygdalae]

The garden had made a pretty fine recovery by now after the destruction done by the Abomination, and coupled with the work of Sina and other people had ensured that they regained the harvest that they had lost. It was going to be a while still before they could fully regain it, but at least it was a start.

Having the time to spare Bruce had mostly been busy filling out his journal with the latest updates of what he had done - records of his various attempts of potion making and other such things. He had been immersed enough in his work that he never noticed the approach of the other person until she was speaking right in front of him.

Bruce made a little start, looking up from his journal to the woman before him, blinking at her once before it clicked in his mind to respond. "Oh--alright." He... didn't recall having asked for anything, but maybe he had earlier in the day. The morning had been particularly hectic.

Without another word he reached out to take the herbs from the other, trying not to think too much about the sudden niggling feeling at the back of his mind, as if he had forgotten something.

[aforethought]

She gets a clear look at him and it’s like touching static.

Melys jerks back, despite herself, dropping the bundle to the cloth-packed floor below.

"Ah, shit, I —" She kneels, an awkward motion, to scoop them up again. "— Sorry on that, you just."

Looked a bottle-full of familiar. She doesn't finish the sentence, eyes still trained carefully onto Bruce. Melys doesn't forget a face any more. She remembers exactly where she's seen him before, and that's a half-dozen reasons to be wary.

Plenty of folks get dragged in to a healer all sliced open like a melon. But not so many go in with a pair of face-branded dwarves. Whole lot fewer than that who won't take nothing to knock themselves out for it.

Hopefully, his discretion hasn't found itself changed by Maker and Conclave. This time, she keeps her hand out until the herbs are in his.

"Didn't mean to interrupt you none."

She gestures to the book.

[amygdalae]

There was a moment's worth of confusion at the sudden reaction from the woman, and for a second Bruce wondered what was wrong, but then she spoke and--

Ah.

No wonder there had been niggling feeling at the back of his mind.

He waits until she's picked the herbs back up and holds it out to him once more. Bruce gives her a small smile and takes it from her hands, placing it beside him to take care of later. It's unexpected, but these herbs will probably help him for the poultices he plans to make later.

"It's alright," he returns, voice mild, hoping that if he stays calm and quiet it won't alarm her any more than she clearly already was. "Thank you. I appreciate you bringing it over."

This time when he looks at her the recognition is clear on his face, but he doesn't say anything else. He knows better than to try and push considering how edgy she looks right now, and he can't blame her for how she feels.

benny (& the jets)

[aforethought]

Theraday, that's the name.

A fine young Lady Theraday who's been up to her shiny silk knickers in the muck, just to shout down a stableboy not half her height on the new bellyfull of puppies her prize champion dog's been dragging around.

Melys stomped in about an hour ago to find the cowed kid pissing out rain from his eyes over a sorry little stash of coppers, wailing on about how he was ever gonna afford to pay her back the bitch fees.

She's new here. She doesn't have the goodwill to burn, ripping heads off over a situation like this. But it's sleeting sheets outside, and the old arm's been cramping on fire all day, and right about now Melys would just about welcome getting her ass kicked back out onto the road.

Theraday, and she's been told just where that's at, off in a nice little room all by her lonesome. Melys shoves the door shut behind her, lets it bang loud.

"Can't shake a leg without tripping over a Mabari, you're letting a heated showhound run about?"

[ungovernable]

The unannounced entry warrants a look up; Benevenuta casts a puzzled, patient look over the girl she doesn't recognise, presuming that at some point, all will begin to make sense. Her first thought is that perhaps they're discussing Jayne or Max - neither of whom she's responsible for, of course, but in whose company she is often enough seen.

(Jayne, especially. She's still working on the Hansens.)

But neither of those mabari are 'heated showhounds', so she tilts her head and studies Melys, almost apologetic as she says--

"No," after a slight pause. "I don't believe I am?"

[aforethought]

Heat rises in her chest.

Theraday's pretty as a painting, all fine and refined, spouting dignified manners that don't fit to match her words. It doesn't even occur to Melys that she might have the wrong woman; rich and upjumped, dark-honey hair. She fits the picture to a tee, down to that tiny little note of regret that Melys can swear she's hearing.

"Didn't you? I checked the records twice. You didn't hand her off for a good damn week of loafing off loose, and now you wanna claim she was in our care the whole time? Asking gold from that kid on it?" She huffs, drawing herself up square. "You got even the least idea what that kinda money means to folks like him?"

Folks like us, she means, but folks like them don't get the kind of answer this problem needs. She's not shouting yet, but the red flushing on her cheeks is fit to match a fresh appl. Benevenuta is today's lucky recipient of the collected stress of the past two weeks. Congratulations. The novelty check's in the mail.

"I mean, what in the Maker's wide world did y'think you were even doing?"

[ungovernable]

Serene through that diatribe, besides a slight furrowing of her brow, Benevenuta sets pen and ink aside, waiting for her to be finished. It's becoming obvious what has happened, if not why; there's no sense in being sharp with a woman who, from the sound of things, has a perfectly valid complaint.

With someone else.

"I cannot possibly imagine," she says, politely, "as I don't own such an animal and have certainly not asked anyone for gold regarding one. If you'll give me the name of the woman you're looking for, I might be able to assist you."

She gestures to the other seat in the room, turning properly from her desk, "You might sit."